


The Bird's Cage

by Liara_90



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alcohol, Bondage, Canon Compliant, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, One Shot, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, just read the tags and decide if my sin is the sin for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 21:03:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13796316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/pseuds/Liara_90
Summary: After the raid on Shion, Raven senses a lingering unease from her ersatz Maiden. So she invites Vernal into her tent, for dinner and the night.Raven has ways of keeping Vernal tied to the Tribe. Some more literal than others.





	The Bird's Cage

* * *

The destruction of Shion had taken its toll on Vernal, even if she’d walked away unscathed.

Unscathed _bodily_ , at least. It’s been years since anyone you’ve encountered in the wilderness of Anima has been able to pose much of a challenge to her. Militias, Grimm, even other bandit groups, on the rare occasions you cross paths. She’s become a shockingly good sharpshooter with that pistol of hers, and she’s no less deady when using her fists or her feet.

But far more dangerous than any of those is her state of mind. When the idiot Huntsmen had tried to defend Shion, to keep your men out, she hadn’t hesitated. That psyche was something that eluded the finest graduates of the Academies - the ability to attack without compunction. Most Huntsmen are trained to kill only Grimm, after all - inhuman monstrosities. Drop by Beacon or Shade and the students’ only experience fighting _humans_ comes from refereed sparring matches or their ridiculous tournaments. Most Huntsmen hesitate when they see their opponent’s Aura shatter, expecting - _hoping_ \- for an expression of submission. They’re not trained to have an instinct to _kill_.

That was one of the most important lessons you’d learned at Beacon. You taught Vernal _much_ better.

She tore through Shion like a force of nature, and then held off the Grimm while your men took their loot. She loses herself in the moment of it, you know, still relishing the challenge and the thrill of it all. Taiyang was like that too, you distantly remember, all bravado and machismo, savoring the prospect of a simple Seek & Destroy. Even Summer had had a bit of it in her blood, more than she’d care to admit. Most Huntsmen did.

You’d supervised the looting, mask down, hand resting on the hilt of your sword. You allowed yourself no sense of triumph or victory, no exhilarating highs. You pillaged without losing your grounding.

The excitement leaves Vernal about halfway back to camp, draining from her like the adrenaline from her veins. It accompanies the physical exhaustion, the creeping fatigue in her muscles she’s now so much more aware of. Her shoulder slump, her head bows, her feet begin to drag.

She’s replaying the battles in her head, you know, because that’s what every fighter in history has always done and will always do. Adrenaline is a hell of a memory aid. She’s reliving the moment where she shot a guardsmen through the head, then the instance where she cracked an Ursa’s skull with a kick. Memories lingering like after-images, burned into retinas. After a while, the sense of satisfaction starts to wear off: it seems petty, to be celebrating a victory over barely-trained peasants and one washed-up Huntsmen.

You rest a hand on her back, flat between her shoulders. Her posture strengthens at once, a newfound vitality in her step. You’re still in front of your men, trekking back through the woods of Anima, so you don’t allow yourself more than that. Just a comradrial pat, a reminder that you’re pleased with her performance.

And oh how pleased you are.

You make it back to camp just before sunset, the last lights of day painting the sky a bloody red. Your men set to work without needing a command, distributing their loot for the commonwealth. They’re a well-oiled machine by now, not ragtag runaways and petty crooks. Fires were being stoked, sentries posted, weapons sharpened and cleaned. The chefs haven’t prepared dinner yet - the time of your return was necessarily uncertain - but a flurry of activity began the moment you’d entered eyesight.

You don’t have much of an appetite after Shion, but you figure you’ll force yourself to eat something.

You spot Vernal, staring somewhat distastefully at a rack of hanging rabbits. She’s never been very good at masking her feelings, an earnestness you’ve never sought to discourage. She tosses aside the small bag of loot she’d claimed as her own - a few tubes of powdered Dust from Shion’s meager reserves - eyes watching blankly as the remaining spoils are sorted.

 _“Vernal.”_ You don’t shout, but your voice is heard across the camp. _“_ Come _.”_

You turn your back before any eyes can linger, sweeping aside one flap of your tent and retreating into it.

Nothing has changed, of course, though your paranoid eyes sweep over it all the same, looking for anything out of place. It’s not that you don’t trust your men - far from it - but there are certain habits that are all-but-impossible to drop. Habits learned before you’d left the Tribe, and retained upon your return. But you don’t need them. The rug is ruffled exactly how you left it, the bottles remained where you’d place them.

Vernal enters.

There’s still a bit of hesitancy in her step, some reservation about entering your _sanctum sanctorum_. Access to your tent is not a privilege to be taken for granted, and even Vernal still remembers that. You have you back turned to her, listening to the way her weight shifts from foot to foot.

“Raven?”

You turn to face her. Your mask is in your hand, held loosely, your own expression just as unreadable. She’s still a little nervous in your presence, after all these years. None of the blind obsequience your raiders show you, but a much deeper kind of respect.

“How about some tea?” you ask.

Vernal perks up at that, at the familiarity of simple routine. She scurries about the tent in a manner the men outside would find unbelievable, setting down tea cups like it’s a ladies’ luncheon in Atlas. She darts outside for the briefest of minutes, returning with a pot of boiling water, quickly kettled and poured. You seat yourself on a cushion, watching it all with some distant amusement, marveling at the dissonance of her soul.

You wave your hand low, extending an invitation for her to join you at the chabudai-style table. She pours two cups and takes a cushion opposite you, savoring the spearmint scent.

“Nice work in the village today, Vernal,” you begin, taking your first sip.

It’s so easy to see how she lights up at that, a bit of praise and attention lifting her mood up mountains.

It’s a shame it never lasts, though.

“Thanks, Raven,” she says, the enjoyment of praise tempered by ever-lingering guilt. The Tribe did what it needed to to survive, but nobody really relished going about that. Not the men, not Vernal, not even you, as much as Qrow may snidely insinuate. “It was a good haul.”

You call for food, and someone brings it in, charred meat and steamed vegetables and a small bowl of nuts. You’ve lived surprisingly well off the land, probably eating better than half of Remnant. Fresh meat and plenty of greens. A bit lacking in fruit, and most of your dairy is powdered, but that’s hardly the worst of your hardships.

Vernal picks at her food, nibbling from a skewered kebab. She’s always had a ferocious appetite, as if she’s still making up for the famines of her youth. She sits on the floor, mostly staring into the lines of its grains, taking slurps of ever-chillier tea.

You feel a vague soreness in your chest.

Tai would disapprove of your new relationship, you know, as would Qrow. Summer would’ve weaved her head and said something about it appearing “ _complex_ ” or “ _problematic_ ”. _She_ at least was never much for fighting with her friends.

Some distant part of you can see the argument, but you also kill people on a regular basis for no other goal than the Tribe’s wellbeing, so the morality of it all seems rather academic in comparison. She’s young enough to be your daughter, though you try to avoid that comparison, even mentally. The relationship between you two will never - _can_ never - be equal, but inequality’s rather the nature of the world, isn’t it?

And if her love and lust keeps her tethered to the Tribe, well, that’s certainly a collateral benefit.

Vernal’s an adult, and that’s about the extent of your ethical constraints. She’s taken her share of lovers, mostly on the rare trip into the town, but also a few fleeting relationships within the Tribe. None of them lasted, obviously. She respects her fellow bandits well enough to live amongst them, but she could never keep the game going with someone she considered _weak_.

And you can respect that. _Relate_ to it, even.

When she’d entered you tent - for the first time with romantic intentions - she’d tried to put a sardonic spin on it. Quoted the old line about beggars and choosers, how living on the lam was cramping her love life, and you were to blame. It was an impressive bit of bravado for someone as nervous as she _so_ was.

So you decided to go along with it. The girlish crush that had metamorphosed into womanly lust. Your nights together served as one more way to keep her leashed, another reason for her to keep your people safe. You never needed much in the way of justifications, and so that thought was more than sufficient.

And - it goes without saying - it’s not like having a woman warm your bed or massage your feet is _such_ a burden... 

You finish your meal but her mood still hasn’t lifted. That was a disappointment: food and nutrients usually work well enough as panaceas. You break out a bottle and pour two glasses of red wine. The strong taste and mild buzz is your own go-to remedy, but Vernal just drains her glass, mechanically, lips reddened.

So she needs a different treatment.

“Stand up.”

Vernal blinks but obeys, pulling herself to her feet. From the brief wince and the ungainly stance, you’re pretty sure her right foot had fallen asleep.

You rise as well. The height difference between you isn’t much, but Vernal always seems to take up so much less space. A useful trait for a predator. You stare into her eyes, big and blue, see the attentiveness written on her face, the anticipation in her posture. She bounces her right leg slightly, a typical expression of impatience, the heel of her foot tapping against the ground.

“Stand _properly_ ,” you correct.

Vernal furrows her brow, a quantum of confusion crossing her features. She takes a stab at your intentions a second later, though, slipping into the parade rest of an Atlesian soldier. Her hands drift from her sides to behind her back, her spine straightens, her feet slip closer together.

The stance actually suits her far more than she’d ever care to admit. She has a natural haughtiness which translates well to the imperious posture, projecting confidence and fearlessness. You cross the distance to her in a few strolling steps, one finger slipping beneath her chin, tilting it upwards...

You hold her head there for a moment, long enough for that smirk of a smile to appear, to fish out that playful glint from her eyes. Vernal knows it’s a game but hasn’t quite figured out the rules, and she isn’t really the type to ask.

She leans forward - in the most minuscule of motions - trying to bring her face fractionally closer to your own. Her nostrils flare ever-so-slightly, sniffing at your scent. She swallows loudly.

You release your grip on her chin, and her head drops, bobbing slightly. You catch yourself grinning at the brief flash of petulence. Vernal loves being touched, and hates being toyed with. (Well, with certain exceptions.)

“Don’t move,” you instruct, before slipping behind her.

Vernal manages to be quiet for all of fifteen seconds. “What are you doing?” she asks, raising her voice ever-so-slightly. There is, somewhat remarkably, no nervousness in her tone, just genuine curiosity. Her ears are strained, listening to the sound of pouches and sacks being shifted around and sifted through.

You return a few seconds later, giving her butt a playful slap as punishment for peeking over her shoulder. The thick fabric of her pants absorbs most of the impact, and she doesn’t so much as flinch.

“It’s simple,” you explain, standing directly behind her. “I’m going to tie you up.”

A single eyebrow on Vernal’s face rises, but that’s the extent of her surprise. No tense muscles, no nervous glances. The rope you’d retrieved from the sack was thin but sturdy stuff, dark brown cords treated with Earth Dust. The strands could be used to tether airships or support the weight of a dozen men, but it had more intimate uses as well. It was one of the few things in the camp Vernal couldn’t tear through with the strength of her Aura alone, which opened the door to tantalizing possibilities.

She allows her hands to be repositioned behind her back, unresisting as the ropes are knotted around her wrists. Your ropework is simple but practical, the knots positioned well-beyond where Vernal’s fingers could hope to pry. As soon as you step back you see her forearms tense slightly, wrists twisting as they explore the contours of their constraints. She’s not really looking to escape, not yet, but she can’t keep herself from testing.

“There’s not a lot of slack,” you say, in a bit of a drawl, strolling around to face her. Vernal’s expression becomes deadpan, distantly unamused. Her shoulders shrug a little, confirming your statement.

“No kidding,” she replied with a grunt. Her Aura will prevent any circulatory damage, that much is assured, but it doesn’t protect her from the pain of fine rope digging into reddened skin. She stops shuffling a second later, returning to her straightened posture. “Can I ask why?”

There’s something teasing in her question. Your finger returns to her face, brushing along a cheekbone. “Because I want to,” you reply, smiling softly. Vernal leans in to your touch, following your finger’s stroke like a cat being petted. She doesn’t _quite_ purr, but the sentiment’s the same between species. “Because I want you tied up.”

Vernal smiles, eyes drifting shut, still relishing your touch. No doubt savoring the part of the sentence where you say ‘ _I want you_ ’. She’s always wanted your affection, your attention, your approval.

And then she wanted more.

Your fingers find their way to her hair, the stands far shorter than she’d ever been allowed growing up. You comb through them just long enough to get a grip, which you then use to tilt her head backwards, barring her throat.

“ _Ah_.” The faintest of gasps slips Vernal’s lips, little more than a sharp inhale. Her eyes are still closed but her mouth has parted, the upwards angle of her head pushing her lips apart. From this angle you can feel her quickened breaths, see the way her chest rises and falls to a new tempo.

Your free hands rests on the front of her pants, firmly cupping her crotch. No gasp this time, but a jagged snort through her nostrils.

“Do you want this?” you ask, already knowing the answer. You apply more pressure in just the right places. Even through the thick fabric of her pants, that touch tantalizes.

“ _Ohhhhhhh_ ,” she draws that single syllable out for seconds. “ _Yes_ , Raven. Gods…”

Your hand leaves her crotch, just as you lease your grip on her scraggly mane. She blinks for a second, unpleasantly yanked back to reality. She stares you in the eye, her expression shockingly icy.

“Well,” you begin, unfastening your belt. With a slight roll of your hips you expose bare thigh, the stretch of skin catching Vernal’s gaze. “You better get started.”

The annoyance at having been teased quickly mutates into enjoyment at being given a pleasurable task. She lowers herself to her knees - something pretty much impossible to do gracefully with hands bound behind one’s back - bringing her head roughly level with your hips. Vernal shuffles forward, eyes locked on her target.

Her lips find the bare expanse of skin between leggings and skirt, kissing eagerly. You’re too in-control to let slip a moan of pleasure, but the sensation is wonderful all the same. Your hand returns to Vernal’s head, brushing and scratching, a tactile reward for her kisses.

Your hand slips from her hair to her shoulders as her kisses move north, her head half-hidden by the pleats of your skirt. To her credit she’s quite patient, not rushing straight to the end-goal. Something that had taken Tai a few months to get... 

The comparison finds its way into your thoughts uninvited, eliciting a small snarl. You grunt, more annoyed at yourself then anything, but the negativity of the noise causes Vernal to lean back on her haunches.

“Raven….?” she asks, uncertain.

You shake you head, banishing wayward memories. Your fingers curl around the lapels of Vernal’s vest, lifting her upward - she scrambles to get her feet beneath herself. It’d be cruel to let her think that she was somehow failing you, so you yank her close for a kiss.

It’s a raw and messy affair, full of passion and devoid of art. It’s not like either of you are particularly romantic lovers. But it conveys the message well enough. Vernal’s hands wiggle behind her back, instinctively seeking purchase, and finding none. Your lips are your only point of contact, your grip on Vernal’s vest keeping the poor girl from getting closer.

You push her back, just a few inches, a soft _gasp_ escaping Vernal as she’s interrupt mid-kiss.

“You’re eager tonight,” you tease, hands drifting from her vest to her hips.

Vernal stick her tongue out, the most impolite gesture she can make with her hands bound. “And whose fault is that?” she asks, (mostly) in jest.

You smile. Not so much at the joke but at the state of mind it betrays. She’d gone from _brooding_ to _lusting_ in a handful of minutes, which had been your goal from the beginning. The last thing you need is for the ace up your sleeve to sink into melancholy and depression. Or worse - _disillusionment_.

“Don’t be rude,” you reprimand, fingers resting on her cheek in a pale imitation of a slap.

Vernal’s scowl deepens, but it’s clearly a game now, a provocation. So you suppress a smile and withdraw your hand, which drifts to the crimson shawl in your hair.

“Or what?” she asks, in provocation, as the red cloth is tugged through raven strands.

The fabric hangs limply from your fingers. “Open up.”

Vernal smiles a little and parts her lips, just enough to show tongue. It’s wide enough.

You slip the cloth between her teeth, pressing against her so you can knot the fabric behind her head. It’s a simple cleave gag, not particularly effective at suppressing sound, but the aesthetic effect is undeniable.

Plus, it keeps things simple. You’ve never been one for _dirty talk_ , either sending or receiving.

The fabric is pulled tight, a bit beyond the point of comfort, the cloth tugging at the corners of her cheeks, the scarlet red vanishing behind her teeth, trapping her tongue. Vernal scowls at you as you pull back, shaking her head in a fruitless search for slack.

“That’s _much_ better,” you observe. Your finger traces her cheek again, but this time Vernal shakes away, enjoying the play-act of defiance. So your finger slips beneath her choker and tugs her close for a kiss. Gagged as she is Vernal can’t quite kiss back, but her lips are no less pleasurable for it.

“Get on the bed,” you instruct, letting her loose. “I’ll be there soon.”

Vernal’s makes her way to the mattress, giving you time to disrobe. It’s not a particularly complex process, and you don’t make a show of it. In less than a minute you’re in your underclothes, nothing more than a black camisole, hanging loosely off you.

She’s been watching it all, of course, even with a complete lack of flourish. Nostrils greedily sucking air, teeth bared over the tight gag. Her thighs rub against one another in a futile attempt at friction.

You figure you’ve teased her long enough.

You stroll over to the bed, her eyes following the strides of your bare legs, darting back up only once you’re right atop her. You push her back, causing her to topple into the mattress, a gentle _fwuph_ as her head hits pillow.

She shifts about as you clamber on after her, the mattress sinking beneath your knees. Vernal’s hips beckon you forward, unthinkingly inviting, the woman already primed for absolutely anything.

Her boots go first, unlaced and tugged off. Her belt’s unbuckled, her pants yanked down. She’s practically gyrating to your touch, at the sensation of being disrobed. There’s really nothing quite like it. With an elongated motion you unzip her vest, parting it to reveal the toned abdominals beneath. She still has a bra on, a practical black thing she wears more for style than support, which you can’t easily remove without untying the ropes. A small shame, but not worth interrupting her bondage for.

Vernal tenses slightly as your hands glide across her belly. She’s not _exactly_ ticklish, but she isn’t a perfect stoic, either. You continue down until you find her panties, as unadorned as her bra, fingers curling around the elastic and then _tugging_ down.

She’s already ready for you, lips flush and parting. Your fingers brush against her outer folders, in broad, symmetrical strokes, eliciting whimpers. Vernal’s eyes are shut, her back arched slightly, feet failing to find purchase on the blanket.

You don’t waste much time. With two fingers of your right hand you begin rubbing around her clitoris, firm movements, just like she likes it. Your left hand runs over her neck. She’s always liked just a lick of _danger_ in her lovemaking. No elaborate scenarios or unconscionable kinks, just an element of _possessiveness_ or _predation_ , the so-rare abnegation through surrender. A hand on her throat to bring the adrenal high as you easily envelop her, holding her close. _Claiming_ her.

Vernal tries to say something but the gag’s still there, rendering her inarticulate. It’s not important. You shuffle slightly for a better angle, then slip index and middle fingers inside her. There’s definite _groaning_ now, halting breaths as you brush and curl.

She’s quieter than your other lovers: far from silent, but not shouting like she’s being filmed for it, either. Heavy breaths and jagged moans. The cleave gag warps her few words, but mostly the red cloth just gives Vernal something to bite on, to occupy her mouth.

She draws her knees up, spreading her thighs as she does, grinding hard against your hand as you bring her over the edge. There’s a melodious moan, and you can see her teeth barred around her gag. Her eyelids squeeze shut like she’s trying to block out the sun.

And then she goes limp.

You let out a faint laugh at the immediacy of it all, the instantaneous transition from _fiery passion_ to _ragdoll_. She seems barely conscious as you roll her onto her stomach, the removal of your fingers eliciting but a grunt. You untie the gag first - the appeal of saliva and obstructed airways tends to evaporate post-coitus - slipping the cloth from her face, which remains planted in a pillow. You can hear her licking her lips as her mouth readjusts, but that’s it. The knots at her wrists go next, revealing little red lines where the coils cinched tight.

Vernal draws her arms into her once they’re free. If the strain of the position discomforted her in the slightest, there’s no sign of it on her face. In fact, there’s no sign of just about _anything_ on her face, other than (you like to believe) contentment and exhaustion.

Alcohol and orgasms. There’s no better sleeping aid in all of Remnant. You know _that_ from experience. So did everyone in STRQ... 

You suppress a growl and shake your head. Fucking memories. Absolutely useless.

“Don’t go anywhere,” you murmur, gathering up the rope and bundling it into a coil. For the next time she needs it. Vernal’s not _quite_ asleep, but she’s clearly on the edge of consciousness. The exhaustion of the day - and now the _night_ \- have finally caught up with her, aided by some wine and the comfort of a bed. You suppress a joke about what would be such stereotypically male behavior, instead awkwardly tugging as much of the blanket over Vernal as you can.

She lets out a contented purr, an acknowledgement of the added warmth. She’s as docile in the bedroom as she is deadly on the battlefield, and the contrast is what keeps things interesting.

You lay down beside her, claiming an unused pillow and most of the sheets. You’re as close as you can get without touching her, listening to her breaths fall on the bed. Just as well she’s asleep - you weren’t really in the mood to have the favor returned, and declining an eager lover is always such a chore.

You lean back on the bed and stare at the fabric of the tent’s roof, eyes wide open. It’ll be a long time until sleep claims you.

Until then, you listen to Vernal’s breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, I hope you enjoyed this sin. As always, please feel free to share your thoughts, opinions, criticisms, and other assorted feedback. It’s the only way I’ll ever improve, and a single comment can brighten my entire day. Also feel free to contact me on [reddit](https://www.reddit.com/user/pvoberstein/) or [Tumblr](http://www.pvoberstein.tumblr.com/), both of where I got by the username pvoberstein.
> 
> And _yes_ , the dynamic is between the two is fundamentally unbalanced. But canon is, IMHO, shockingly supportive of a shippy interpretation, thanks in no small part to the fact that Raven can summon a portal to (almost certainly) Vernal, something she can only otherwise do with Tai, Yang, and Qrow. To say nothing of their on-screen interactions themselves.


End file.
